


Photo Chemistry

by china_shop



Category: White Collar
Genre: Case Fic, Fic, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-14
Updated: 2011-09-14
Packaged: 2017-10-23 17:49:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/253125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clinton goes undercover as a fashion model; Neal coaches him through it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to the LJ ficfinishing comm for support, to Candidlily and Bientot for first reading, and especially to Cyphomandra, mergatrude and Dragonfly for beta.
> 
> Set after 3.10.

"Okay, listen up, people." Peter dropped a small stack of files on the conference table and picked up the remote control. Sunlight was streaming in the window behind him, haloing his head and making it hard for Neal to see his features. At the other end of the table, Diana and Blake were quietly comparing notes about their weekends, and across from Neal, Jones was absorbed in something on his phone.

Something amusing, apparently: Neal could see the smile lines beside his eyes, and it made him smile too. He and Jones weren't exactly friends, but they'd been through a lot together as part of the team, and Neal liked him, trusted him to have his back in a tight spot. He'd even nearly made a move on him once, under the influence of an existential crisis and half a bottle of Scotch. Probably would have, if Jones's ex-fiancée hadn't turned up at the door. Neal wondered sometimes what might have happened if they hadn't been interrupted, but usually concluded it wouldn't have gone anywhere. All the signs said Jones was straight.

Straight and about to get reprimanded. Neal kept his hands under the table, well out of sight, and surreptitiously sent him a text message: _Keep that up, Peter's going to confiscate your phone._

A second later Jones looked up and met Neal's eye just as Peter said, "Jones, that means you too. We've got a new case. One of our street informants has been in touch about some of the people on our watch list. This guy—" He pushed a button on the remote, and the mug shot of a thickset low-browed guy in his forties showed up on the screen. There was a cruel twist to his mouth. Neal made a mental note to keep his distance, if their paths crossed in the course of the case.

"Mitch Mozelli," said Peter. "Known jewel thief. He was spotted visiting the studio of fashion photographer Allie Brunswick on Saturday night." The image changed to a photo of a curvy woman about Neal's age, with short brown hair and a stubborn chin. "Brunswick has a history of trespass and alleged assault, but that was nearly five years ago. As far as we know, she's turned over a new leaf." The picture changed again, this time to a familiar face. "On Sunday, the day after Mozelli came calling, AJ Turner stopped by Brunswick's studio."

"Turner's a fence," said Diana.

"Specializes in antiques," added Neal helpfully.

Jones slid his phone into his pocket and pointed at Peter. "You think they're using the studio as a clearing house?"

"That's one possibility." Peter moved to the head of the table. "I dropped by today, unofficially, to see if I could get a feel for what's going on."

"And did you?" asked Neal.

"Brunswick's definitely hiding something." Peter braced his arms on the table and looked around the team. "We won't know what until we get someone in there. We don't have enough for a warrant, so it's going to be an undercover assignment."

"Undercover in a studio specializing in fashion photography," said Jones. He raised his eyebrows at Diana, who groaned and wrinkled her nose.

"I was a model last year."

"So you've got experience," Jones told her.

Neal hid a grin. Diana hated the glamor assignments, despite being perfectly suited to them—physically, at least.

Peter held up his hand. "You were a runway model," he told Diana. "For this, we need a photographic model." He closed his eyes for a moment, as if to gather his strength, and then looked blandly at a spot somewhere near the ceiling. "A male one."

Neal's pulse skipped like it always did when he got the chance to run a government-sanctioned scam; it wasn't the adrenaline rush of freelancing, but it was still a buzz. He looked at the faces around the table, all watching him expectantly, and let his self-confidence show. "I've been a model."

"You were a model?" Peter shook his head. "How come we didn't know about that?"

"The session never made it to print," said Neal, trying not to sound too smug. He and Mozzie had stolen over a hundred thousand dollars' worth of genuine Rolexes and a pair of diamond cufflinks from the photographer's client on that job, as well as the hard drive containing the entire shoot. "Can't have photos floating around out there in my line of work."

"Former line of work," said Jones.

Neal winked at him. "That's what I said." He leaned back in his chair and looked at Peter. "Do you need my portfolio?"

Diana's mouth fell open. "You have a modeling portfolio?"

Neal gave her a small, modest shrug.

Peter sighed. "We don't need your portfolio—DNA Modeling Agency have agreed to assist us by placing you in their lineup tomorrow afternoon." He stepped back and put his hands on his hips. "Okay," he said to the room in general. "Everyone get back to work."

 

*

 

The next morning, Peter, Jones and Neal were working on a corporate fraud case when Diana came in. "We've got a problem," she said. "Brunswick's canceled all sessions this week except one—a rush job for _Suave_ magazine. It starts in an hour."

Peter set aside the files they were examining. "Can the modeling agency get Neal into that session?"

Neal took off his tie. He'd worn a dark red cashmere sweater for the occasion, but he still needed to dress down. In his experience, models rarely showed up for a shoot ready-suited.

Jones was distracted with his phone again.

"They could, except for one thing," said Diana. " _Suave_ is a fashion magazine for black men."

Neal and Peter both stopped bustling and looked at Jones. So did Diana.

Jones glanced up from his phone and raised his eyebrows. "What?"

Peter snagged the phone out of his hands. "Jones, you're going in."

" _What?_ " Jones' eyes widened in panic. He glanced at Neal, then back at Peter. "Seriously?"

"You just have to stand around while Brunswick photographs you," said Peter, gruffly. "A child could do it. We'll make sure the photos aren't published."

"But I'm not—" Jones stopped. "I mean, can't someone else—"

"Peter—" Neal sized up the situation. Jones was frozen in his seat, Diana was trying not to laugh and Peter was, as always, downplaying the situation, as if pretending it wasn't a big deal would make the experience less humiliating. It fell to Neal to save the day. He grabbed Jones by the arm and dragged him to the door. "I'll give him some pointers," he told Peter. "Give us twenty minutes."

"Ten," said Peter.

"Fifteen," said Neal, and pushed Jones ahead of him toward the elevators before Peter could argue.

Neal hit the button for 23. They could use one of the interview rooms. The walls were glass, but the rooms were rarely used unless they'd just collared a suspect.

Jones was quietly freaking out. Neal had seen him face down psychopaths with guns and all manner of other bad guys without breaking a sweat, but apparently this was well outside his comfort zone.

"Breathe," said Neal, as the elevator dinged, and yes, luck was on their side: the floor was empty. He bundled Jones into the nearest room, shut the door and peeled off his sweater. "Here."

Jones took it, but frowned. "I'll stretch it."

"So buy me a new one," said Neal. He watched as Jones stripped down to his undershirt and pulled on the sweater. It was snug, but acceptable. The soft wool clung to him, emphasizing the broadness of his shoulders and giving him more shape than those boxy FBI suits he usually wore, and the color wasn't bad, but even in the cashmere, he looked like an FBI recruitment poster.

"Okay, let's practice." Neal pushed the table against the wall and got out his phone. "Just relax and stand naturally."

"How?" said Jones. "Like this?" Apparently he'd recovered from his initial alarm and had settled into low-level panic. He smoothed the sweater over his chest, dropped his hands to his sides and stood at ease on the other side of the small room.

Neal took a couple of snaps and shook his head. "A little less military, a little more seduction," he said. "Pretend I'm someone you're attracted to."

Jones blinked, and his face went blank. "What?"

"Someone else," said Neal, refraining from rolling his eyes. Straight was one thing; kneejerk defensive about it was another. But they didn't have time to get into that. "Someone who isn't me. Whoever you spend so much time texting."

"Oh," said Jones. He scratched his neck. "I don't actually—"

"Someone hot," said Neal, interrupting. "Because this is great—" He imitated Jones' posture. "—if you need a mug shot. Listen, symmetry is out. You need lines." He deliberately softened his shoulders and posed to illustrate what he meant. "Shift your weight, put one of your hands—"

He trailed off. Jones was catching on—he'd cocked his hip and put one hand in his pocket, leaving the other loose. "How's this?" he asked. "I feel like a jackass."

"It's good," said Neal. "Much better. Relax your shoulders." He took a couple more shots, getting briefly distracted by the curve of Jones' neck. Definitely better—but not there yet. Jones still gave the impression that he was resisting hostile interrogation. "Remember—it's not you. It's a cover, an assignment. You need to be someone who, out of all the possibilities, chose to be a model."

Jones pressed his lips together.

"And you need to open up," said Neal.

"I'm open," said Jones, shortly. "I'm open to a lot of things."

"I can see that," said Neal. There was a spark in Jones' eye, but it was buried under layers of repression and anxiety. "Chief among them, you're open to irritation, evasiveness and caution. Try for something a little warmer." He tilted his head and studied Jones. He was like an impenetrable code, and Neal needed to find the key. Time was running out.

Neal walked right up to him and took his wrist, pushing his sleeve up a little. Jones tensed and his pulse thrummed under Neal's fingers, but he didn't resist. Running on instinct, Neal adjusted the neckline of the sweater, though it didn't need it, brushed away some imaginary lint. He felt the heat of Jones' blush and lowered his voice. "You can do this. You just need to relax, okay? Trust me."

Jones met his eyes, his gaze dark and unfathomable—but not guarded like it had been. "Okay," he said.

"Okay." Neal took a breath and stepped back. He raised the phone and took another photo, and the difference was amazing: Jones was right there on the screen now. Neal saved the photo. "That's—"

"What?" Jones sounded uncertain, slightly out of breath.

"Great," said Neal. "That's really good." He checked the phone. "We're out of time. Hold that thought." In the elevator, on the way back down to the office, Neal rattled through some other advice. "Listen to what Brunswick tells you. She sees what the camera sees—you don't—and she knows what she's doing. Don't be afraid to look away from the camera. Be honest."

That made Jones smile, despite his obvious nerves. "Neal Caffrey says to be honest."

"That's what acting is," said Neal. "It's when the camera stops that you start lying."

"This is modeling, not acting," said Jones. He was starting to stiffen up again.

Neal put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. "It's undercover," he said. "You've done undercover before. You'll be fine."

The elevator dinged and Jones walked out ahead of him. Neal hung back slightly and told himself that the surge of attraction he was experiencing was just the Pygmalion effect. No way was he falling for Jones. It was one thing to toy with the idea of a casual affair; it was another thing entirely to get caught up in feelings for a duty-bound G-man who, despite the chemistry between them, was almost certainly heterosexual.


	2. Chapter 2

Clinton was distracted during the last-minute briefing in the van. He was trying to hold onto that elusive feeling of sexy confidence, while avoiding looking at Neal and thinking about what that feeling might mean.

"We can't give you an earpiece because Brunswick's camera will pick it up," Peter was saying. "Wear the watch as long as you can."

Probably the feeling just meant that Neal was an accomplished con artist and even Clinton wasn't immune to his charisma. That was probably all it was. Anyway, the warmth was fading, and with it, the confidence, and Clinton began steeling himself to get through the next couple of hours. He wasn't low on self-esteem, but he knew he wasn't model material, if only because he was well into his thirties. Still, the photography session didn't have to go well—it just had to get him inside the studio so he could look around.

"Here's your phone," said Peter. "Keep it close."

"Okay." Clinton slid it into his pocket and stood up. Neal's cashmere sweater was tickling the back of his neck.

"Good luck," said Neal, bright and impersonal. He hesitated a fraction, and a warm note entered his voice. "Don't forget to breathe."

"Thanks." Clinton threw him a grateful glance, checked the watch was transmitting and exited the van, forcing himself to focus on the case.

 

*

 

Brunswick's studio was one large airy white-painted room, with a partition that screened off an area at the back. It was also cold. Laurel-Mae from the modeling agency greeted Clinton when he arrived, apparently making him on sight. "Heating's broken," she said, ushering him towards the back of the studio. "Let's get you dressed, Mr.—"

"Charles Jefferson," said Clinton. "Call me CJ." He looked around discreetly, deciding where to start investigating.

But Laurel-Mae didn't give him a chance. "Okay, CJ," she said. "Let's get you to wardrobe before someone notices those pants."

The place was bustling, and the shoot had already started. Two young men were grouped together in front of a matte green backdrop while Allie Brunswick directed their poses and took shot after shot. Nearly a dozen people were watching with critical expressions that made Clinton think of judges at the Olympics. A couple of them even had clipboards.

Brunswick herself was crackling with energy, and the models were gorgeous—tall, lean, graceful and confident. Caffrey would have fit right in, except for being white.

Clinton, on the other hand, would stand out like a—well, like an FBI agent. A twist of panic tightened in his stomach. He hoped fervently that he could search the studio, find something incriminating and call an end to his cover before it was his turn to pose. In an attempt to get started, he excused himself to go to the bathroom, but the amenities were near the rack of clothes and the wardrobe guy was waiting when he emerged.

 _Breathe,_ Clinton told himself, as he stripped off his suit pants and Neal's sweater, and put on the mauve silk shirt and the gray suit the wardrobe guy gave him. It was cold, but Clinton's hands were sweaty. He resisted rubbing them on his pants.

"You'll have to lose the watch," said the guy, checking the fit of the clothes.

"Okay," said Clinton. "I'll keep it on for now, though."

The guy gave the shoulders of the suit jacket a sharp tug. "Bad idea. If Allie sees it, she'll go ballistic," he warned. When Clinton didn't move to take the watch off, he shrugged. "Don't say I didn't warn you." He selected a tie and knotted it for Clinton. "You'll need this to start with. She's shooting a progression."

Clinton didn't know what that meant, so he just nodded. In the wall next to the bathroom there were two closed doors which probably led to closets or storage rooms, but before he could find an excuse to try them, the wardrobe guy sent him to makeup.

"I need to get a bottle of water first," said Clinton.

The guy pointed at the partition. "There's a refrigerator in the corner on the other side of this wall—water and soda. Help yourself, but be quick."

There was no opportunity to poke around unnoticed. Clinton passed a stack of half a dozen medium-sized wooden crates, on his way to the refrigerator, but when he edged closer to take a look, they were empty. He came back around the partition, and one of the makeup artists pounced on him and hustled him into a chair. "We don't have much time," she said. "Allie will be ready for you soon."

The two makeup artists were both women in their early twenties: one already working on a model. Clinton sat back and let the other do her worst. The model was a couple of inches shorter than Clinton, and nearly a decade younger. He had a long nose and a square jaw, and he was two-thirds of the way through a book called _World War Z_.

The women were talking about how all the other shoots that week had been cancelled. "I heard Allie tell Kevin she's going fishing," said one of them, "but God, she passed up a shoot for _Esquire_. Must be one hell of a fishing trip!"

The soft bristles of a powder brush swept across Clinton's face, and he closed his eyes. Through the thin interior wall of the studio, he could hear Brunswick talking a mile a minute, calling everyone "darling" and "baby." She was putting out so much nervous energy, it made his scalp prickle.

When the brush stopped dusting his cheeks, Clinton opened his eyes and asked, "Is it always like this?"

"I know, right?" The woman looked up from her makeup kit and pulled a face. "Usually Allie's, like, ferociously focused."

"It's probably because the wolf's out of town," said the model in the next chair, looking up from his book.

Clinton thought he must have misheard. "Excuse me?"

"Toni Wolfe, her business manager. She takes care of everything so Allie can get her groove on." He eyed Clinton appraisingly. "This your first shoot at Brunswick?"

"My first shoot, period," said Clinton. He held out his hand with a Caffrey-style smile. "CJ."

"Marlon." His eyebrows shot up and he shook hands. "You're popping your cherry for _Suave_? This is the big time, man. I've been trying to get this gig for over a year. You must be good."

"Just lucky," said Clinton. He suppressed the guilt of knowing that Marlon's photos would get pulled from the magazine because of him. Maybe the modeling agency would give the kid another chance.

The makeup woman was back with some kind of makeup sponge. "Hold still," she said, and held his chin steady while she blotted his face.

Her nearness brought back echoes of Neal, only an hour ago, adjusting the cashmere sweater, standing too close. Making Clinton feel dangerously sexy. The makeup woman was pretty and she was wearing a nice floral perfume, but it was nothing like that. Clinton licked his lips, remembering, and the makeup woman sighed and touched up his makeup. "Okay," she said. "We're done. Allie will be ready for you in five."

That was enough time to check out what was behind those closed doors. Maybe he could end this before it went any further. He pulled out his phone. "I just need to make a call," he said, getting to his feet.

But the makeup artist pushed him back into his chair.

"No, you don't," she said. "Sit. Don't move. Don't touch anything. I know you guys—ten seconds out of my sight, and I'll have to start all over again."

She was young but fierce, and Clinton couldn't argue without causing a scene. He gritted his teeth, resigning himself to going through with the shoot, and hoped there'd at least be a chance to search the place afterwards, when people would be paying him less attention.

He folded his hands in his lap and waited. Now was not the time to play with his phone, even if he had just unlocked the Earth Crystal. As he thought that, his phone buzzed with a text message. It was from Neal: _Looking good, CJ._

Clinton shook his head. The guy was incorrigible. _You can't know that,_ he replied.

A few seconds later: _Extrapolation. Marlon sounded impressed._

Marlon was, in fact, watching him text. "Girlfriend?"

"No, he's—"

"Boyfriend?" said Marlon, knowingly.

"Just a friend." Clinton regretted that he hadn't left the watch with the rest of his clothes. He didn't need the team hearing this. Another text arrived, this time from Peter: _No time for chitchat. Investigate!_ "Actually, it's my agent," said Clinton.

"This is your first shoot and you have an agent?" Marlon really did sound impressed. "You must be—"

"Lucky," said Clinton. "Peter's the best. I wouldn't be here if it weren't for him."

Another text arrived. Neal: _Don't sell yourself short._

Clinton breathed a laugh, then caught Marlon's eye. "Pep talk."

Marlon looked like he was about to say something, but right then Allie Brunswick came over. "Marlon and—it's CJ, right? You're both looking fabulous. Perfect. Are you ready to make some gorgeous pictures?" She was talking fast, her quick energy belying the dark circles under her eyes, and she didn't give Clinton or Marlon a chance to reply. "We're going to work through a progression. I want to start with you boys buttoned up and sharp, and we'll let you get gradually more debauched—loose ties, unbuttoned shirts. Maybe bare feet."

Marlon grinned. "Sounds like fun."

"Yeah," said Clinton, trying not to panic. "Fun."

Allie patted his arm, but it was like she hardly saw him. Like she was running on autopilot. "It's cold in here, so I'm going to need you to be extra sizzling hot, okay? Let's do it. Let's make some magic."

She shepherded them to the main area of the studio, where the green backdrop had been replaced with pale blue. The lights were hot on Clinton's face and neck, and he couldn't see much beyond the glare, but it felt like everyone—the guys in the van as well as the studio full of strangers—was watching. His mouth was dry and he felt like an idiot and a fraud. He was Clinton Jones: there was nothing to see, definitely nothing worth capturing on film.

"Relax, darlings. Get comfortable," said Allie. "I'm going to take a few shots to make sure we've got the light levels right."

Clinton started to stand at ease, but a quick glance at Marlon reminded him what Neal had said about asymmetry. He shifted his weight and tried to get back the confidence, the heat that had burned in his belly when Neal had stood close, all his attention on Clinton. Thinking about that helped a bit, but then he put a hand on his hip and realized he was still wearing the watch. The wardrobe guy had said Allie would go ballistic if she saw it.

Allie was doing something with her camera and she hadn't noticed yet, and Clinton couldn't take the watch off without drawing attention to it. There was nowhere to put it down. He tugged his jacket cuff to cover it and shoved that hand in his pocket, standing side-on to the camera to keep it hidden.

"Okay, good, good, that's wonderful, darlings," said Allie, her camera going click-click-click. "Shauna, baby, can we have some music? Fabulous."

A sultry beat started playing, loud enough that Clinton had to listen carefully to hear what Allie was saying.

"CJ, I need more. Turn toward me. Come on, give me—yeah, I just need you to warm up, baby. That's great." The camera kept clicking relentlessly, as if it were exposing Clinton's insecurities, one by one. "Marlon, that's fabulous. Yeah, just keep—perfect."

She still sounded distracted, but Clinton barely noticed now. _Breathe._ He inhaled deeply. His hands were cold, his neck and shoulders felt stiff. Marlon was standing next to him, loose and casual, radiating charisma. It was obvious he'd done this before, he made it look easy, and Clinton couldn't match him. _What would Caffrey do?_ Clinton looked straight into the camera lens and smiled, and for about a second it felt right, like he could do this.

"CJ, baby, I want you to think about sex, okay? Think about seduction," said Allie. "Someone's coming on to you. Someone really hot."

An image of Neal standing right in front of him, lightly brushing something off Clinton's shoulder, the clean line of his jaw and the warmth of his fingers through the ghost of a cashmere sweater—it was like an assault on Clinton's senses. He wondered if he was being punked by the universe. He didn't usually spend a lot of time thinking about sex: the job didn't allow for much of a social life, and it had been months since he'd got laid—maybe more than a year. And now he had to think about it, it was all tied up with Caffrey and everyone was watching. He swallowed and took an involuntary step back, wishing desperately for somewhere quiet and private he could go to get his head together.

"Relax. Listen to the music," said Allie. "Marlon, you're doing great, darling. Perfection."

A movement—a familiar gait—caught Clinton's eye and he squinted against the lights. Either he was losing his mind or Neal was coming to stand behind Allie Brunswick, off to the side. Hands in his pockets, casual stance, serious expression.

Clinton didn't know what was showing on his own face, but whatever it was, it made Allie gesture impatiently at someone. The music got quieter. "Time out," said Allie. "CJ, darling—"

Neal stepped in, all charm and schmooze, and interrupted to introduce himself. "Allie Brunswick, right? Peter Blake."

Allie shook his hand with obvious hostility. "This is a private session. We're working here. Who let you in?"

"I'm CJ's agent," said Neal. "If you could give us a minute—"

She glared at him, then threw up her hands. "Fine. One minute." She stalked over to the refrigerator in the corner and got herself a coke.

Clinton's face was burning. It was bad enough that his attempts to search the studio had been blocked and he was screwing up the shoot, but now Neal was here, drawing even more attention to Clinton's ineptitude. Neal, who was sophisticated and sure of himself, who could have handled this assignment as easily as he did everything else. Neal, who was getting under Clinton's skin, making Clinton think about him in a sexual light. Who'd come to witness first-hand Clinton making a fool of himself.

Clinton grabbed his arm and dragged him to the window, keeping his voice down so no one would hear. "What the hell are you doing here, Caffrey?"

"Calm down, okay?" said Neal. "Breathe. I thought you could use some moral support."

"You want to watch me crash and burn," said Clinton, scowling. He could feel the makeup like a shadow on his face, emphasizing how ridiculous he must look.

"No. It's not you," said Neal. "Brunswick's hiding something, and that tension's transmitting itself to everyone else. Sure, if you had more experience, you'd know how to compensate, but—"

"But since I don't, I'm definitely going to fuck it up," said Clinton, with an edge of bitterness. "Thanks."

Neal met his eye. "I told you, you can do this." He said it with such conviction, Clinton almost believed him. He wanted to. God help him, he wanted to trust Neal Caffrey.

"I'm not like you. I—"

Neal moved closer and took him by the wrist, the brush of fingers stealing Clinton's breath, and Clinton knew it was a trap. But before he could pull away, Neal deactivated the audio on the watch. "Listen, modeling doesn't have to be about sex, if it makes you uncomfortable. That's a short-cut."

Clinton shifted his weight, acutely aware of Neal, the electric charge of his touch. He wanted to pull away, to stem the tide of confusion and attraction that was rising up in him, but the spark in Neal's gaze held him spellbound. Silenced his objections.

"It's a way to get connected with your physicality, your body. A way to open up." Neal leaned in even closer, until they were all but embracing, and his words were hot on Clinton's ear. "You have to stop hiding, CJ."

"It doesn't make me uncomfortable," lied Clinton, hardly knowing what he was saying. "You don't scare me, Caffrey."

"That's good. I don't want to scare you." Neal lowered his voice even further. "Actually, what I want is to tie you down and do unspeakably dirty things to you."

Clinton's eyes fell shut of their own accord. He didn't know if Neal meant it, or if he was just saying whatever it took to get Clinton in touch with his physicality, but either way, damn, it was working. He was speechless, heavy with desire. Neal smoothed his thumb across the inside of Clinton's wrist, and Clinton had to swallow a groan.

"But," said Neal, taking a half step back, "given you're kind of busy, right now I want to help you nail this assignment." He slipped the watch from Clinton's wrist and reactivated the audio, making sure Clinton saw him do it. They were back on the record. "Okay?"

"Okay," said Clinton. He was dazed, his brain flooded with pornographic images and ghost sensations that disintegrated into static when he tried to lock onto them, but he was also aware of every inch of his body—in some ways, more awake than he had been in years. "Okay."

"Good." Neal straightened Clinton's tie. There was a hint of a smirk at the corner of his mouth, but his pupils were huge, haloed with only a thin ring of blue. If that line had been a ploy, he'd conned himself too. "Go get 'em. Give me a chance to case the studio."

"CJ?" Allie sounded like her patience was wearing thin. "I need you now. Are you good to go?"

"Yeah," said Clinton, dragging his attention from Neal and back to the shoot. Not that it mattered anymore. Nothing mattered compared to this swell of magnetism and invincibility. "I'm ready. Let's do this."


	3. Chapter 3

Neal put on the watch and, through it, told Peter and the team that he was going to look around, but he didn't move. The watch was warm from Jones' wrist. Across the room the shoot had started up again, and CJ was owning it now, holding everyone's attention. The other model, Marlon, was going through the motions, slick and over-confident, but he couldn't compete with CJ, who was unpolished and inexperienced but had so much presence that it didn't matter.

Neal couldn't look away. He'd done that. Jones was different because of him. He hadn't intended to say what he'd said, to go that far. He'd just meant to flirt a little, to tease CJ into relaxing, but the fantasy had spilled out, and given CJ's reaction, Neal didn't regret it. The suit CJ was wearing was a million miles from his usual FBI fare, sleek and flattering, and the thought of peeling it off him, of CJ naked and turned on, at his mercy, made Neal's stomach tighten. Something was happening between them—swift, hot and exhilarating—and Neal wasn't one to pass up an opportunity, no matter how ill-advised. And hell, he had plausible deniability, if he needed it. He could say the line had been a con to focus CJ's attention.

He was pretty sure he wouldn't need an out.

CJ turned his head and looked past the lights and the bustle of people, right at him. His chin was up, proud, and the gaze was a challenge. Neal's skin hummed in response. But first Neal had to look around the studio. Carefully. They didn't have a warrant, and Peter would be pissed if he screwed up the investigation by conducting an unlawful search.

Neal strolled across the room, careful to keep out of everyone's way and crossing his fingers no one would notice the slight bulge of his tracker. Luckily, the new one was more discreet than the bulky version he'd first been shackled with, and besides, with CJ in the spotlight no one was paying Neal any attention.

He paused by the refrigerator, doing his best to maintain his cover as a modeling agent, watching CJ, and then reluctantly slipped around a partition to the back half of the room where two women were applying makeup to a couple of models, and a man was arranging clothes on a rack. One of the makeup women looked up and eyed Neal curiously, with enough admiration that under different circumstances he might have gone over and flirted with her, tested her to see if she knew anything about the jewel thief or the fence, but he was too impatient to play today; he wanted to case the place and get back to the other room. Brunswick had said they were shooting a series, and if CJ was going to get progressively less dressed, Neal wanted to watch.

There was a stack of empty wooden crates in the corner. A couple of attractive young men, almost certainly models, were smoking on the fire escape outside the emergency exit. There were three internal doors in the side wall, either to closets or other rooms. Neal tried the first. It was the bathroom. He went in for a minute, so as not to seem suspicious. When he came out, luck was on his side: the models were still on the fire escape, but the guy with the rack of clothes had gone, and the makeup women were packing up their things, deep in conversation, oblivious to Neal now.

"There are three doors," he said under his breath, so Peter and Diana would know what was going on. "The first is a bathroom. I'm trying the second." It was locked. Neal found a paperclip and a nail file in his pocket. He straightened the paperclip and used them to pick the lock, efficiently enough that Peter probably wouldn't guess. Inside was a desk, a computer, a shelf of camera equipment and supplies, and a wall of filing cabinets. The back wall was bare brick, no windows. Neal left the door open a crack so he could hear what was going on outside and turned on the desk lamp. "It's an office."

He flicked quickly through Brunswick's mail, a stack of bills and a pile of proof sheets. There was nothing unexpected. In the top desk drawer, he found a day planner with most of the entries for the week crossed out. For the following day, in block letters that overlapped the scribbled-out entry, it said _Seamus, Emmons Ave, Sheepshead Bay, 6am._ Neal took a photo.

"Brunswick's meeting someone called Seamus at Emmons Avenue tomorrow morning," said Neal. "Does that mean anything to you, Peter?" He put the day planner back and tried the next drawer down, found it was locked and picked it. There were a couple of rolls of film, a stack of proof sheets and some full-sized color photos of a dazzling brunette wearing a sheer sea-green dress and elegant antique-style jewelry—diamonds and emeralds. Neal glanced through the photos, getting distracted. The curve of her jaw was a little like Kate's.

"That's fabulous, baby," said Brunswick, her voice carrying from the other side of the partition. "You too, Marlon—wonderful. Now we're going to kick this up a notch. I want you both to loosen your ties."

Neal tossed the photos back in their drawer and fought the urge to go and watch, managing to stay on task only by promising himself a look at CJ's photos later on. He rifled through the filing cabinets as fast as he could, found nothing out of the ordinary and briefly considered trying to log on to Brunswick's computer, but no, that would take too long. He was just about to leave and try the last door when he noticed a strong box on top of one of the filing cabinets, partly obscured by a case of film canisters.

Approaching footsteps and the low murmur of voices made him freeze, but they carried on past the room, either not noticing the door was ajar or not caring. Must have been the models from the fire escape. Neal reached for the strong box.

It took a few seconds to get it open, but when he did, it was worth it. There had to be nearly a million dollars' worth of jewelry in there. Neal whistled under his breath.

"Pay dirt," he said, carrying it to the desk and setting it in the pool of lamp light. He picked up a diamond brooch and snapped it with his phone. "I'm sending you some pictures. Have any of these pieces been reported stolen?"

There were emeralds, rubies, garnets and more diamonds, all exquisitely set. Except—Neal picked up a ruby earring and held it up to the light so he could examine it more closely. "Wait. Wait a minute, these aren't real. It's costume jewelry, top quality." He inspected an emerald ring. "It's all fake. Brunswick must have been using them for a shoot." As he said it, he recognized some of the pieces from the photos of the brunette.

"Just a little closer," said Brunswick in the distance. "Right, right, that's perfect. Undo a couple more buttons. Yes, yes, yes. You've got it." She sounded engrossed now. Excited, even. "Perfect."

Neal hastily returned everything to where he'd found it, fighting temptation once more. This might be his only chance to search the third room. "I'm going to look behind door number three."

The third door was also locked. Neal let himself in, ducked past a heavy velvet curtain and found the light switch. The overhead light glowed red, and the room smelled off—like chemicals and decay. Neal wrinkled his nose. "It's a darkroom."

There was a sink full of empty trays, and a shelf of paper and bottles of developer and fixer. All the typical paraphernalia. Neal side-stepped a bench to get a closer look at the shots hanging on the clothesline that crisscrossed the room—did the pictures hold a clue to a crime?—and stumbled on a large plastic bundle on the floor. A man-sized bundle.

"I've got a bad feeling about this," he muttered, pulling the industrial strength plastic away at one end. It was rolled up tightly, several layers thick and secured with rope. He couldn't get it off completely, but he could see enough. There were shoes in there, and they were still attached to someone's feet. "Ugh," said Neal, pulling back instinctively. "Dead person. Ewwww!"

He stood up, took a deep breath and immediately regretted it—the decaying smell was the corpse. Dammit, he should have left the investigation to Jones. "Have I mentioned how much I hate dead bodies?" he muttered.

He exited the darkroom, not bothering to lock the door behind him and stopped outside, torn between guarding the evidence and going to watch the shoot.

"Okay, now clink glasses," said Brunswick, through the wall. "Marlon, baby, a little smile, yeah, just like that. CJ, that's gorgeous, darling."

Neal glanced at the darkroom door. No one was going to move a dead body in the next few minutes. Of course, thinking that had probably jinxed it, but the area was deserted. Everyone else must be watching the shoot. Neal started toward the partition, self-control all used up.

Before he could make it, there were shouts of "FBI!" from the main entrance. A few seconds later, Peter came running in, gun in hand. "Diana's arresting Brunswick," he said. "Backup's on its way. Where's this body?"

CJ was on Peter's heels. His shirt was unbuttoned, his tie hanging loose around his neck, and he was carrying an empty martini glass, but despite that he seemed fully focused on the case. Neal pointed to the darkroom and stood aside to let them take over, allowing himself a moment to appreciate the view. But when Peter looked over his shoulder, he rolled his eyes. "Jones, when you've finished putting your clothes back on—"

CJ blushed, handed Neal the martini glass and tidied himself up quickly, all without looking at Neal.

A minute or two later, Peter and CJ came out of the darkroom, blinking against the brighter light in the outer studio. Peter pointed to CJ. "Get a medical examiner in here." He turned to Neal. "It's Mitch Mozelli."

"The jewel thief?" said Neal.

"Yeah," said Peter, his hands on his hips. "Was this door locked?"

Neal gave him a withering look. "It's a dead body, Peter."

This was no time to quibble about procedure, and Peter apparently saw the justice of that. He held up a hand. "Fair enough. Mozelli must have been here since Saturday night. That'll be why Brunswick turned off the heat." The raised hand turned into a pointed finger. "Why did the audio cut out?"

"What?" Neal widened his eyes, innocently.

"When you were talking to Jones, the audio from the watch cut out." Peter put his hands on his hips. "Neal?"

Neal risked a quick glance at CJ, who was calling for an ME while he collected his pants and the cashmere sweater, and visibly pretending he wasn't also listening in to Peter and Neal's exchange. "Trade secrets," Neal told Peter.

Peter raised his eyebrows.

"I didn't do anything," said Neal, slipping his hands into his pockets. "I was with Jones. Fully chaperoned."

Peter studied him a moment or two longer, until Neal raised his eyebrows back, letting his impatience show. "Okay," said Peter. "Good work."

Diana came in. "Brunswick's lawyered up."

"Oh great," said Peter. He ran his hand through his hair. "We need to figure out what happened here."

 

*

 

The necklaces, brooches and rings in the strong box were copies of privately owned pieces, none valued at less than ten thousand dollars.

"Mozelli was going to swap out the originals for the forgeries," said CJ.

"Looks like it," said Neal, holding up an ornate emerald ring. "Which means these aren't just incriminating evidence; they're a catalogue of exactly what he was planning to steal."

"The question is, how did they end up here in Brunswick's studio?" finished Peter.

"And how does the fence fit into the picture?" Neal retrieved the pictures of the dazzling brunette from Brunswick's desk. "Maybe she can tell us."

Diana ran the photo. "We've got a hit. Loretta Laccona. She was a model, but she hasn't worked much in the last couple of years. And she's married to Mitch Mozelli."

"Get someone to bring her and Turner in for questioning," said Peter. "So, Laccona comes to Brunswick to update her portfolio. She brings the jewelry for the photo shoot."

"It could have been her payment to Brunswick, too. They must be worth nearly a thousand," said Neal, studying her picture. "They certainly add a touch of class."

CJ rolled his eyes and forged on with their theory. "Allie tries to sell the fake jewels through the fence."

"Mozelli comes looking for the jewelry, Brunswick surprises him, there's a struggle—" Peter nodded. "It's a theory. I think it's time we talked to Ms. Brunswick."

 

*

 

Neal leaned on the windowsill of the interview room and watched Peter and Diana interrogate Brunswick while her lawyer repeatedly advised her not to say anything.

"How do you know AJ Turner?" asked Peter, sliding a photograph of Turner across the table. "We have information that he recently visited your studio. Were you asking him to fence the costume jewelry we found in your office?"

"What?" said Brunswick. "No! My camera is old—almost an antique, now—and the parts are really hard to find. AJ helps me out sometimes."

"I noticed you were using a Leica M3," said Neal. "That's pretty unusual these days, what with the digital revolution. It's getting so you can hardly source film stock anymore." Neal glanced at Peter's impatient expression. "Or so I've heard."

"You don't have to—" started Brunswick's lawyer, but Brunswick touched his arm and answered Neal.

"That camera changed my life. It might even have saved my life." She folded her arms and hunched forward, staring at the tabletop. "I used to be paparazzi, you know? Stalking people, getting into fights with celebrities. It's no way to live. And then I found the Leica, and everything just clicked."

"No pun intended," murmured Neal.

Everyone ignored him.

"I got into fashion photography, built up my business. I've almost paid off my debts. If it weren't for the Leica—" She shook her head.

"Did your camera recently sustain some damage?" asked Diana. "Is that why you contacted Turner?"

Brunswick's face clouded and she looked away. "There was an accident. The casing on one of the lenses cracked. But I didn't mean to—"

"Allie!" interrupted her lawyer.

Brunswick bit her lips together.

CJ knocked and came into the room with a file. He'd changed into his work clothes, and Neal felt the insistent itch that always accompanied a closing window of opportunity: moment by moment, CJ was turning back into Agent Clinton Jones, and that warm sexy responsiveness was being lost under layers of duty, boundaries and respect for regulations. CJ handed the file to Peter. "We tracked down Seamus at Sheepshead Bay. Seamus Flaherty. He owns a fishing boat, and he has a private booking for six a.m. tomorrow morning, in the name of Toni Wolfe. That's Ms. Brunswick's business manager."

"A fishing trip. That's one way to dispose of a body," said Peter, turning to Brunswick, but she was distracted.

"So, wait," she said to CJ. "The FBI hired you to help catch me out? Why?"

CJ stood squarely and put his hands on his hips. "I am FBI."

"But you've modeled before, right?" She frowned when he shook his head, and Neal hid a grin. "Huh," said Brunswick. "I mean, it was a rocky start, but that wasn't your fault. I was—I had stuff on my mind. You were good, baby. I'd need to see the proofs to be sure, but you were—" She nodded slowly. "Really good."

Neal leaned toward CJ. "Told you."

CJ didn't look at him, but Neal could see his smile reflected in the glass wall across from them.

"Can we focus on the murder investigation, please?" said Peter, sounding pained. "Neal, I think we can handle this without you. How about you call it a day."


	4. Chapter 4

Clinton transferred the bottle he was carrying to his left hand and knocked on Neal's door before second thoughts could stop him. He'd had a couple of drinks, and he was riding the tide of the day, powered forward by the ego-boost of his short-lived modeling career and refusing to examine his motives too closely. He was thankful that June hadn't asked any questions when she let him in.

Thankful too that Neal answered the door quickly, not leaving him time to second-guess himself. Neal looked surprised, but not displeased, and he gestured Clinton inside. "Hey."

Clinton glanced around. No sign of Mozzie or any of Neal's other disreputable friends, and no blueprints or indications that criminal planning was in progress. More things to be grateful for. Clinton had only been here once before and now, as then, the room was warm and smelled faintly of paint and coffee. There were takeout containers on the counter. He followed Neal to the center of the room, near the table. "Allie confessed."

"Despite her lawyer?" said Neal.

Clinton nodded. "Once we talked to Loretta Laccona, we had all the pieces—Allie just helped us put them together. Mozelli came to her studio looking for the fake jewelry and the photos of Laccona. When Allie caught him on film, he threatened her, grabbed the camera and tried to smash it. She wrestled it off him somehow and hit him with it, and he fell and cracked his head open on the edge of the counter."

Neal winced.

"Yeah," said Clinton, pulling a face. "It's not clear if it will count as self-defense, given she tried to cover it up. She was going to crate up the body and send it to someone she knows in Louisiana, to get rid of it for her, but the crates she ordered were too small, so her business manager booked her a fishing expedition. Flaherty has a sideline in disposals."

"Good to know," said Neal, looking vaguely queasy. He stuck his hands in his pockets and seemed to shrug off the grisly tale. "You know, for a unit that specializes in investigating white collar crime, we come across a lot of dead bodies."

"You're right about that." Clinton had got used to dealing with the aftermath of violence, but even after two and a half years, Neal clearly hadn't. Clinton liked that about him. It was a reminder that Neal was a person with honest reactions; not everything he did was a calculated con. Clinton took a step forward and gave Neal the bottle of whiskey and the bag containing the cashmere sweater he'd bought as a replacement. "These are for you."

Neal put the bottle on the table and looked into the bag, fingered the sweater inside. "You didn't have to."

"You saved me from public humiliation," said Clinton. If he thought about it, he could still remember the awkwardness that had seized him at the start of the photo shoot—and the buoyant self-assurance that had come after.

Neal took two glasses from the shelf above his counter. "You're welcome."

He poured generous measures of whiskey into each glass. His movements were easy and efficient.

Clinton watched, and commonsense felt like a limitation, recklessness like being alive. His breathing quickened, despite his effort to stay casual. "So, what you said. Was that just to get me—"

"—going?" Neal finished. He handed Clinton a glass and their fingers touched, sending a flicker of electricity up Clinton's arm. Neal met his gaze head on. His eyes were dark. "That depends."

"On what?" Clinton took a mouthful of whiskey, enjoying the smooth smoky burn of it, the way his senses were on overdrive. He licked his lip, saw Neal's gaze zero in on that, and God, his skin was too tight, too hot, he didn't know what he was doing, he shouldn't—

"Can I call you CJ?" asked Neal.

Clinton stopped thinking. He didn't want to think; he'd had enough of playing safe. He put down his glass, stepped in until they were so close he couldn't focus. Neal's mouth was serious, lips slightly parted, and Clinton stopped holding back. He curved his hand around the strong column of Neal's neck and kissed him, hard and deep, dragging him close so that the light brush of their bodies gave way to pressure and desire. Neal kissed back, just as hungry, and God, his hands were already tugging at Clinton's clothes as if he wanted to strip him down. Fingers raked across Clinton's skin, and he arched forward and gasped at the press of Neal's cock against his own.

He hadn't had sex with a guy since he was a teenager, before he joined the Navy. Hadn't thought about it in years. Those had been a few furtive, embarrassed occasions, long since written off as teenage experimentation. They'd been nothing like this. This was urgent, consuming and triumphant. This was adult. Neal murmured incoherently against Clinton's mouth, urging him on, and Clinton was high on the excitement of being with him, the hard heat of his body, his hands boldly exploring Clinton's back and ass. Clinton needed to get him off, to see his eyes glaze and his body shudder, and to know it was because of him. He reached for the waistband of Neal's pants and hesitated.

"No one gets tied up." He barely recognized his own voice, it was so unsteady, and his words made Neal laugh outright.

But Neal's humor faded quickly, his eyes darkening. "Can we pretend?"

Clinton wasn't sure exactly what he meant by that, but he knew it was going to be good. _I want to do unspeakably dirty things to you,_ Neal had said, and right now, bondage aside, Clinton was up for whatever was on offer, however weird or unorthodox, so long as he could keep feeling this sensual and alive.

Neal pushed him toward the bed, and Clinton caught his arm and dragged him along, and then pulled him close again, pulling at his clothes, pushing them aside until, in a rough whirlwind of caresses and maneuverings, the two of them were sprawled half-naked across the covers. They writhed together, panting, each movement bright with pleasure, ratcheting up Clinton's desire. They didn't need to talk, and there was no resistance until Neal rolled on top and grabbed Clinton's wrists. He pinned them above Clinton's head, in the gap between pillow and headboard, and met Clinton's eye, silently daring him to play along. "Don't move."

Clinton couldn't find words to speak. He nodded.

Neal grinned, almost feral, a far cry from his usual urbane control, and bent to kiss him, his tongue a wicked flame that trailed down Clinton's chest to his belly, making him quiver and swear. Clinton was tense from head to foot, more turned on than he could remember ever being, and he trusted Neal to take care of it, to play dirty _and_ fair, despite the small voice of caution trying to make itself heard over his ragged breathing.

Neal dealt with the rest of Clinton's clothes. One of Clinton's arms was still in its crumpled shirtsleeve, but otherwise he was naked, exposed but refusing to give in to self-consciousness. Neal sat back for a moment and looked at him, and there was no mistaking his desire. Clinton fleetingly wondered what he saw—the FBI agent or CJ the model—but then Neal was stripping off his own clothes, untangling his pants when they caught on his tracker, and Clinton stopped thinking again. Neal was beautiful, muscled like a classical statue, skin smooth and lickable. Clinton almost abandoned the game and brought his hands down to feast on him, but then Neal put his hand on Clinton's cock, just holding it down, pressed to Clinton's belly, and he bent to suck on Clinton's balls. A sharp shiver coursed through Clinton, and it took everything he had not to thrust up or whimper. He wasn't going to last long.

He gripped his hands together and strained to stay in place, his stomach taut and heart pounding. Whatever Neal was doing down there, it felt exquisite and intense, like a high voltage wire threading between them. Clinton closed his eyes and held his breath, desperate to hang on to the sensation, mouth open in a silent moan. His body started shaking beyond his control. His shoulders ached. And Neal finally, finally started moving his hand on Clinton's cock, each stroke torturously slow and deliberate. His mouth left Clinton's balls and he nuzzled the crease of Clinton's groin, licked the inside of his thigh and bit down, gentle but relentless, working his way back up until Clinton did whimper. Sound and breath escaped him in a rush, and a flood of broken words followed, begging Neal to keep going, to make him come, to fuck him, whatever he wanted.

Neal's grip on his cock tightened, stripping him down, and a second later, Neal's hand was gone and Neal's mouth closed on him, sucking hard, making Clinton buck up helplessly, and oh fuck, he was coming. No time to warn Neal, no time for anything. Clinton fisted his hands in the pillow and rode it out, wrung through and shaking, suffused with a dark, throbbing heat.

When it finally eased, he forced his hand to unclench from the pillow and lowered his arm, rolling his shoulder a couple of times to get the circulation back. He grabbed Neal and drew him up the bed. Neal's mouth was red and used, his eyes heavy. He held himself over Clinton and kissed him, hot dirty kisses that tasted of come, frying Clinton's last remaining brain cells.

But Neal's erection brushed Clinton's thigh, and it was too soon for languor. Clinton freed his other arm from its imaginary ties above his head, hastily discarded his shirt and pushed Neal onto his back, following after—still clumsy from his orgasm, but eager and determined to give as good as he'd got. He ran his hands over Neal's flushed chest and belly, down to his hips. Clinton was in no fit state to attempt his first ever blowjob, so he sat back, licked his hands and used them—one on Neal's cock, the other nudging behind his balls, trailing a wet finger back even further to his hole.

Neal groaned and threw his head back. He hitched his hips up, over and over, and Clinton sped his strokes to match the rhythm and watched, captivated. Neal bit his lower lip. His eyes were shut, brow furrowed, his cock tight and swollen in Clinton's hand, and Clinton couldn't take his eyes off him.

If he'd had lube—but they were sweaty enough that his finger moved easily over Neal's hole, and he succumbed to temptation and slid it in, just a little, just to see how Neal would respond.

"Ohhhhhhh," breathed Neal. His eyelids fluttered open, his eyes blurred and unfocussed. He pushed down with his hips, taking more.

Clinton felt an impossible bolt of desire—too soon, there was no way he could be ready again yet—and tried to speak. His throat was dry, and he had to clear it before he could talk. "You got lube?"

Neal nodded, emphatic but dazed, and made no move to indicate where it was, apparently lost in a haze of sensation, so Clinton tried the nightstand, stretching to search the drawer one-handed, his finger still in Neal's ass. Fortune was on their side: he found a small bottle among the notebooks, pens and other miscellanea. He squirted some on his occupied fingers without pulling free, and then slowly withdrew and entered Neal again, this time with two fingers. The lube gave him more confidence to move, and he pushed in further, making Neal grunt.

"Okay?" asked Clinton.

"Uh-huh," said Neal, blinking rapidly. "Fuck." He swallowed hard, and there was a hint of awe in his gaze. Clinton could almost hear him thinking that he hadn't known staid Agent Jones had this in him. Clinton dropped the lube bottle on the bed, wrapped his hand back around Neal's cock, and figured what the hell. He bent to lick the head, not trying anything ambitious, but wanting to taste Neal before this was all over, maybe wanting to prove himself.

Neal's ass clenched around his fingers, and his body shuddered. He bent one leg, digging his heel into the mattress so he could twist up and thrust into Clinton's hand and then push back on his fingers. His pleasure was unmistakable. Clinton curled his fingers and stroked inside him, and Neal swore and moved faster. A few moments later he came, spilling into Clinton's mouth and, when Clinton couldn't keep up and Neal's cock slipped free, on Clinton's chin.

Neal collapsed back, finished, and Clinton grabbed some tissues and wiped his fingers, then his face. He flopped down beside Neal. Now desire was satisfied, reality was rushing back in, with commonsense hard on its heels. He flung his arm across his eyes and groaned.

"Oh God," said Neal. He laughed, still sounding breathless. "I mean, don't get me wrong, that was great. I needed that. But wow—a CI and a federal agent? This was a really bad idea."

Relief battled with pride and residual desire. Relief won. This was a mistake, a temporary, heady madness brought on by a phase of the moon or the aphrodisiacal side-effects of being photographed. "Tell me about it," said Clinton. "I don't know which of us would be in more trouble if the Bureau found out."

"That would be you, for once." Neal's smile was audible.

Clinton dropped his arm and turned his head. Neal was staring up at the ceiling. A drip of sweat made a trail down his cheek. "Why me?" asked Clinton.

Neal rolled his head to look at him, eyebrows raised as if it were obvious. "Because Peter expects me to blur the lines. You, on the other hand—"

He was right. Clinton was supposed to be the responsible one, dependable, conscientious. The knowledge inspired a surge of rebellion, but Clinton ignored it and sat up, looking around for his shirt.

Neal was watching him. "I won't tell if you don't," he said. He fished the lube out of the bedclothes, made sure the cap was secure and dropped it back in the drawer. "Do you trust me?"

Clinton searched for a tactful reply, tried to summon a wry smile, but the truth was that he didn't trust Neal. He liked him, he counted on him in a tough spot, and he wanted him, even now, but he couldn't trust him. Which meant he'd just exposed himself to all kinds of potential trouble. He moved to the edge of the bed and reached for his underwear and pants.

The mattress shifted, and then Neal was sitting beside him. "You can trust me with this."

Clinton surveyed him, his serious eyes and earnest mouth, his hands lax on his thighs. Neal Caffrey at his most convincing, seemingly unguarded. There was no way to know if it was an act, but Clinton didn't think so. Even Neal wouldn't play that dirty. "Okay," he said.

Neal nodded. He leaned in and gave him a quick, hard kiss, like a promise. "Okay."

He walked, naked but for his tracker, to the kitchenette and poured himself a glass of water, while Clinton sat on the edge of the bed, half dressed with Neal's kiss still tingling on his lips, and told himself again that this had been a mistake. A really big, really stupid mistake. It was impossible.


	5. Chapter 5

The next day was far more awkward than Neal expected. CJ was businesslike, no jokes or asides in the morning briefing or chats at the coffee machine, and still doing whatever it was he did with his phone at every available opportunity. Texting his girlfriend, maybe, thought Neal with unwarranted bitterness. Meanwhile Neal himself was trying his hardest to behave as if nothing had happened, while avoiding referring to CJ by name because he didn't want to say "Jones," and "CJ" would definitely raise eyebrows.

And that was all wrong. Neal should have been radiating enigmatic smugness, subtly teasing CJ, flirting under the radar and making sure he knew they were still good, no inconvenient feelings to disrupt their working relationship. That it had been a pleasant diversion, but Neal didn't have any expectations, and he'd definitely keep his word and not tell anyone.

But it was impossible to flirt with someone who wouldn't look you in the eye, and Neal's heart wasn't really in it anyway. Not in flirting. He did spend half an hour at his desk constructing a fantasy in which he lured CJ to the men's room and they had sex in a stall, silent and frantic, freezing whenever anyone else came into the room—but that didn't exactly help.

As far as actual work went, the team was back on the corporate fraud case, which didn't even seem to be holding Peter's interest, let alone anyone else's, after the excitement of the day before. Neal doodled on his legal pad, making sure his designs were abstract enough that no one would think twice, and snuck glances at CJ until Peter caught him at it. So Neal distracted everyone by pointing out the subtle inconsistencies in the CFO's story and that the signatures on the audit documents were forged, and the case more or less solved itself from there.

Just before lunch, he overheard Diana teasing CJ about the untimely demise of his modeling career. "You know Peter logged Brunswick's camera film from the shoot in with the other evidence," she said. "You should ask for copies to put on your Christmas cards this year."

"I can live without," said CJ. He stirred creamer into his coffee.

"Oh, come on." Diana was clearly enjoying herself. "Brunswick said you were a natural. Maybe you could moonlight, make a few extra bucks."

"In my abundant spare time." CJ gave her a wry grimace and walked away.

Neal leaned unnoticed against the file shelves near the coffee machine and talked himself out of following CJ back to his desk like a puppy. Instead he grabbed a couple of memoranda from his in-tray and headed down to the twentieth floor to talk to Rhonda in Evidence. There were only a few people around down there, and Rhonda was sitting at her desk with a sandwich in one hand, a pen in the other. She was half-way through the NYT crossword. He'd timed it perfectly.

"The infamous Mr. Caffrey," she said, by way of greeting, half-welcoming and half-wary. "What can I do for you today?"

Neal gave her a sheepish look and held up the memos. "I left these out of the Brunswick file. Any chance you could add them in without telling Peter? He's such a stickler for paperwork, and I could do without the lecture."

"He's a stickler because he has to be," Rhonda pointed out. "Federal investigations are supposed to have a paper trail. It's required by law."

"Which is why I'm here," said Neal, nodding. "Dotting the i's, crossing the t's."

Rhonda took another bite of her sandwich and pointed to the counter along the side of the room. "File boxes are over there. Steal anything and I'll kick your ass."

"Thank you. Really." Neal went over to the boxes on the counter. They were waiting to have their contents checked against their itemization lists before they could be filed in the archive. The evidence for the Brunswick case was nearest Rhonda, and he only had a few seconds before she'd get suspicious, but he was in luck: the rolls of film were in an evidence bag near the top of the second box. He slid them into his pocket, left the memos in their stead and closed the lid.

"Literary character played in films by Charles Laughton, Anthony Perkins and Geoffrey Rush," said Rhonda from behind him. "Fifteen letters, starting with I, ending with V-something-something-T."

"Inspector Javert," said Neal, and surreptitiously pressed the button on his phone that made it ring. He pretend-answered it. "Okay, yes, yeah, I'm on my way. Thirty seconds." He half turned to Rhonda, keeping his bulging pocket out of her line of sight. "I've gotta go. Thanks again, Rhonda."

He went back to his desk, made sure no one was listening and called Mozzie. Things had been strained between them since Keller, but he was always good for information. "Hey, Moz," said Neal. "I need to borrow a fully stocked photography darkroom for a couple of hours this evening. Inside my radius."

"Should I ask?" said Mozzie.

Neal fingered the rolls of film in his pocket. "No."

"Give me ten minutes." Mozzie disconnected and called back in five with a name and address. "Monsieur Valois is expecting you at six-fifteen. Introduce yourself as Sébastien Poisson."

"Sebastian Fish?" said Neal. "Really?" He never knew anymore if Mozzie's security precautions were necessary or just payback for the loss of the Nazi treasure.

"He's an Anglophobe," said Mozzie. "Do you want my help or not?"

"Yes," said Neal. "Thanks, Moz. I appreciate it." He hung up.

 

*

 

Valois was a naturalized Frenchman in his late seventies with a thick accent, a white mustache and an apparently permanent scowl. Neal exchanged pleasantries _en français_ for a few minutes, listened to Valois' rather surly opinions about New York weather and American food, and promised to pass on his compliments to Monsieur Mozzie. Then Valois showed him to the darkroom and left him to it.

It had been years since Neal had developed camera film—the rise of digital meant those skills were rarely called for these days—but he had a good memory for processes. He checked the supplies, turned off the main light and got to work. A few hours later, he had the negatives, a copy of the negatives and a set of proof sheets—hastily dried and far from his best work, but passable. And he'd spent a good amount of time wondering if he'd lost his mind. The night before had been illicit and erotic, but CJ hadn't given any indication he wanted to repeat the experience, and Neal had meant it when he'd said it was a bad idea. Getting intimately involved with someone whose first instinct was to enforce the law, who would look at him askance for even the smallest misdemeanor, however harmless, and whose career could be endangered by Neal's actions—it was beyond idiotic.

Somehow, that didn't make it any less enticing.

Neal cleaned up after himself, thanked Valois again and took the fruits of his labors home with him. The original negatives would have to be returned to the evidence box ASAP, under some pretext or other. He stashed the copies in the secret compartment in the mantelpiece and sat down with the proof sheets and a magnifying glass.

God, it was a wonder the paper wasn't smoldering, the pictures of CJ were so incendiary. Neal studied shot after shot—the ones from the beginning of the shoot, where CJ looked awkward and self-conscious, and then the abrupt shift to poise and magnetism, the confident gaze and sensuality. There were a few dozen shots like that, showing various attitudes and interactions between CJ and the other model. It didn't take a professional eye to see how good they were. There was one shot in particular of CJ looking away from the camera, challenge in the tilt of his chin, provocation in the curve of his mouth—Neal was certain CJ had been looking at him when that had been taken, thinking about him. Wanting him. Desire coiled in Neal's belly.

He moved on. A dozen shots later, CJ was loosening his tie, then his collar was unbuttoned, his shirt untucked. He had one hand on his hip, he was smiling, toying with the camera, his gaze endless and dark.

Neal raised his head and caught his breath. He wanted CJ—more than he'd wanted anyone since Kate. He wanted to strip back the layers, the respectability, the physical awkwardness, and set him free. There was no point pretending he didn't care. This was out of his hands.

He stashed the proof sheets in the bottom of his wardrobe under his winter sweaters, and paused, contemplating the bottle of whiskey from the night before. They'd barely touched it. He could take it with him, but he didn't need a pretext. He left it on the table, grabbed his coat and went to catch a cab.

 

*

 

It was past nine when he arrived on CJ's doorstep. There were voices coming from inside, but they had the rhythm of a scripted TV show, and a burst of canned laughter cut off when Neal knocked.

Footsteps and then CJ was standing in front of him in jeans and a t-shirt—possibly the same t-shirt he'd worn the first time Neal had come over, during the Barrett Dunne case. His face bore a mix of pleasure and trepidation. "Neal."

"Hi." Neal clenched his hands at his sides to keep from reaching for him. "I was just—" _in the neighborhood,_ he was going to say, but CJ interrupted before he could complete the cliché.

"Hey, uh, listen." CJ shifted his weight but didn't move to let him in. "I'm sorry about today. I should have—" He met Neal's gaze and ducked his head to the side, wincing. "—said something. That wasn't cool."

"Don't worry about it," said Neal, and then his hands came up their own accord and he was pushing CJ back against the wall beside the coat hooks, kicking the door shut behind him before he knew what he was doing. CJ's eyes were half-closed, his mouth inviting, and the t-shirt was thin and soft, accentuating the contours of his chest. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and Neal touched his cheek and kissed him, slow and thorough, overcome with a desire that eclipsed pride and self-preservation, trying to convince CJ he needed this too.

CJ was easily persuaded. He pushed Neal's coat off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor, and widened his stance, his hands settling on Neal's hips to drag him closer, apparently welcoming this invasion with enthusiasm, even when Neal lost all vestige of self-control and rubbed against him, groaning. Through a fog of arousal, Neal registered they were both already hard, both breathing harshly. CJ was kissing him back, eager and unashamed. If Neal was embarrassing himself, he wasn't alone. It was so perfect, Neal might have dropped to his knees and blown him, then and there, but he couldn't tear his mouth from CJ's. He pressed in harder, wanting to get as close as possible, to dissolve their clothing by force of will and merge their bodies, if he could, but CJ pushed him away. Not hard and not far, but enough to make Neal stiffen.

There was a moment's dread before he understood: CJ wasn't calling a halt. The opposite. He was running his hand over the front of Neal's pants, shaping his cock through the fabric. Neal's heart started banging against his ribcage, relief and anticipation making him weak, and he reached for the button of CJ's jeans. His hands were shaking and hurried, making him clumsy, and when CJ reciprocated, he was just as uncoordinated. Their fingers tangled briefly, getting in each other's way, but then they were free, underwear pushed hastily down, and CJ's hand was on his cock, stroking him, sure and wonderfully possessive, until the rest of the world could have ceased to exist for all Neal knew or cared.

He returned the favor, loving the full weight against his palm, squeezing and rubbing, faster and faster, unable to help himself. He wanted CJ to come, to hear and see him, to smell the musk of his body. He dropped his forehead to CJ's shoulder and watched their hands move in the shadows between them, the blur of dark and pale skin, while CJ panted in his ear and said his name. There was a rushing sound all around them, like an airplane taking off, and Neal was caught in a vortex of pleasure so intense it made tremors sweep up and down his spine, lodging in his throat and the base of his skull and between his legs, gathering and building until his cock ached and he thought he might implode, if release didn't come soon.

"God," he said, the exclamation wrung from him. "CJ, just. Please. _Yes._ " The final syllable turned into a hiss as his orgasm took him, vivid and powerful.

A second later, CJ throbbed in his hand, pulsing hot and wet on Neal's wrist, his gasps loud in the quiet apartment. Neal slung an arm around his neck and sagged against him, kissing him muzzily. He could barely keep himself upright, and the graze of CJ's teeth across his lip made him shudder, almost an aftershock. He turned his head away, blind-sided by the intensity.

At least CJ seemed equally undone. He'd combed his fingers into Neal's hair, cupping the back of his head and now he was just holding Neal there. Hugging him.

They were hugging.

Neal's alarm bells started sounding. He tried to ignore them, wanting nothing more than to burrow against CJ's shoulder—maybe get horizontal and naked together—but years of conditioning and lectures from Mozzie meant he couldn't relax when his instincts were screaming at him, however much he knew the risks weren't immediate. Not unless he had a plan. Which he didn't. No plan at all.

"Chill," said CJ, as if he could hear the tumult in Neal's head. He took a breath deep enough that Neal felt his chest expand. "You want something to eat? I could make eggs."

The sounds buzzed through Neal's chest, then slowly resolved into words. Neal blinked. He hadn't eaten since lunchtime. "Sure. I mean, yeah. That would be good."

"Okay," said CJ. "Give me a minute." He pressed a kiss to Neal's cheek with tenderness that made Neal's throat hurt, and then extracted himself from their slumped embrace. Neal watched him strip his t-shirt over his head, and tried to keep his head together. He was too experienced be enraptured by the sight of a naked torso.

CJ matter-of-factly used the t-shirt to wipe up, then folded the wet patches to the middle and offered it to Neal so he could follow suit. Neal took the bundle and did the best he could, trying to salvage his clothes and his dignity. Meanwhile CJ pulled up his underwear and jeans, and disappeared into the bathroom.

Neal gave up on his shirt, picked up his coat and threw it onto a chair. A sitcom was playing on the TV, exaggerated expressions and primary colors, with the sound muted. Neal watched it mindlessly for a moment or two and then shook himself and went into the kitchen, where he helped himself to a glass of juice and tried to formulate a strategy. Nothing would come together, and Neal knew why, even if he didn't want to admit it to himself: you couldn't make a plan until you knew what you were trying to achieve.

Neal looked around CJ's kitchen. It was clean and tidy, but there were a few signs of domestic clutter: the postcards on the refrigerator door, the mismatched coffee cups, the pile of unopened mail and the small stack of recipe books that looked like they hadn't been touched in years. Was this what he wanted? Was this even an option?

CJ answered that while he made the eggs. "This isn't who I am," he said, sending Neal a sideways look, part apology, part regret. "You know that, right?"

He'd put on a clean shirt, and Neal stopped thinking about getting him out of it and listened to what he was saying. "Is it who you want to be?"

"I gave up a lot to get where I am," said CJ, evading the question like a pro.

Neal raised his eyebrows and pointed out the obvious. "Where you are is here. With me." Which made CJ open his mouth to quibble, so Neal summoned a smile and backpedalled. "Hey, it doesn't have to be a big deal."

CJ put down the wooden spoon he was using to stir the eggs and came over. "It is a big deal," he said, seriously. "I'm not saying it's not. Neal—" He shook his head.

Neal shrugged, letting him off the hook, but CJ stepped closer as if he couldn't help himself.

"I want you," he said, and pressed his finger to Neal's lower lip. "This is crazy and we can't keep doing it. We can't. But Jesus, Caffrey."

"Neal," said Neal, and he sucked CJ's finger into his mouth, stroking it with his tongue. CJ groaned and pulled his hand free, shoved Neal against the refrigerator, framed his face with his hands and took his mouth. And Neal shut out what CJ had said, the practicalities and impossibilities, and let him, reveling in his touch, taking everything he could get.

CJ's hands slid to his neck, his shoulders, and his kisses were so sweet and insistent Neal thought he might die. It wasn't even about sex now, nor simple gratification: it was about knowing and being known, about sharing this moment. Neal felt drunk on it, full of awareness and recognition. He could do this forever.

They kissed and kissed, and the atmosphere shifted and thickened, passion re-entering the picture. Neal's arousal took him by surprise; it was languid and dreamy, with little of the impatience of before. The thought of CJ slowly, sensuously fucking him slid into his mind and wound itself around his desire, and he was about to risk saying something, nudging them in that direction, when a shrill beep blared, making them jump apart.

"My smoke alarm." CJ rubbed his face and climbed onto a chair to remove the battery, while Neal rescued the charred eggs from the stove and dumped the whole pan in the sink.

He ran his hand through his hair, trying to gather his wits. He'd been so engrossed in kissing CJ that, if it hadn't been for the alarm, the whole building could have burned down without him noticing. And there was a sizeable part of Neal's brain that clearly placed sex above survival, because he was hot with resentment at the interruption, regardless of the consequences.

But apparently the alarm had been timely for CJ. He'd dealt with the pan and now he was keeping his distance, standing by the counter with his arms folded tightly across his chest. Neal could persuade him, seduce him—their chemistry was undeniable, and CJ wanted him, he'd said so—but before he could figure out how to start, CJ looked at him and shook his head. "I know it sounds corny," he said quietly, "but no one's ever made me feel like this. And knowing you, who you are, that scares the hell out of me." He pressed his lips together, and dropped his gaze. "I'm sorry, Neal. Really sorry. But you should go."

Neal swallowed half a dozen objections and counterarguments and forced himself to accept the decision: if that was what CJ needed—if CJ couldn't trust him with this, didn't even want to try—then fine. Neal would make it easy on him.

He grabbed his coat. CJ saw him to the door. Neither of them spoke—there was nothing more to say.


	6. Chapter 6

Clinton woke the next morning feeling like crap. His neck hurt, his body was stiff and there was a hollow ache in his chest. He felt old and tired and alone.

At this rate, he was going to be alone for a long time. But what other choice could he have made? He was an FBI agent. He was Clinton Jones. He didn't belong with Neal Caffrey.

He dragged himself into the shower and stood under the spray, unsure how he was going to make it through the workday. The prospect of seeing Neal, of acting natural and pretending nothing had happened between them—it was beyond him. He still felt bad about the day before, when he hadn't been able to look at Neal without remembering and wanting, so he'd pretty much ignored him. That had been rude and disrespectful, not at all what Neal deserved. Today would be worse.

Clinton scrubbed his face with his hands and shut off the water, stood there dripping, letting his skin goose-pimple as the air cooled around him. If he'd given Neal a different answer, Neal might be here now, showering with him, teasing him, using his mouth and his fingers to turn Clinton on. Giving Clinton that glazed lustful look that made him feel like the center of something. Made him feel special.

That was a fairytale—one that cast a con artist as hero. Clinton squared his shoulders and went to get dressed. He made himself eat breakfast, polished a scuff mark off his shoe and went to the door, checking for his keys and wallet. He took one step outside and stopped dead.

He couldn't do this. It was too soon. Tomorrow he would sit next to Neal in meetings, look him in the eye, smile and pretend they were just colleagues and friends. Tomorrow he would accept that that was all they'd ever be. Tomorrow he'd fake it so well, even Peter and Diana wouldn't be able to tell.

But not today.

He turned around, went back inside and, for only the third time in all the years he'd been with the Bureau, he called in sick without being literally bedridden. He hung up his suit, threw himself onto the couch and stared at the ceiling. And thought about Neal.

The memories were torrid and insistent. Clinton closed his eyes and tried to get a grip. When that didn't work, he compromised with a time limit. "One hour of wallowing," he told himself out loud, "and then I get over it. One hour."

As if this permission had flipped a switch, the tide of mental images changed. It wasn't Neal naked and sweaty now, or coaching him about modeling; instead it was Neal solving cases, laughing at something Diana had said, in the van with headphones around his neck. Neal bright-eyed and brilliant, working every bit as hard as the agents in the team to bring down the bad guys. Neal stepping in front of David Lawrence's gun and saving Clinton's life, putting himself on the line. Neal turning up on Clinton's doorstep all those months ago with a bottle and no ulterior motive, at exactly the time Clinton had needed someone to talk to. The damned dream in a tracking anklet.

Neal pale and withdrawn after Kate Moreau's plane exploded, tears streaking his cheeks that might have just been from the smoke, if his heart hadn't been so obviously destroyed. Neal putting himself back together, in the aftermath.

Clinton stood up and started pacing, trying to escape the truth of his own emotions. He went into the bedroom and fished his phone out of his suit jacket, but _Final Fantasy III_ couldn't hold his attention. Nothing could disguise the fact that he had the wrong feelings for the wrong person.

By lunchtime, he desperately needed to escape the apartment. He pulled on sweatpants, sneakers and, in a moment of self-indulgence, Neal's cashmere sweater, and shrugged into his coat.

The day was drab and uninspiring. People hurried this way and that, hunched against the rain, not stopping to look at the world around them. Cars splashed through puddles on the street and blared their horns at each other. Clinton reached the end of the block and veered off toward the river. He didn't know where he was going, or why.

His phone buzzed with a message: a picture from Diana. It was one of the shots from Brunswick's photo shoot, must have been from near the end, because Clinton's shirt was hanging open. Diana had cropped Marlon out, and captioned the picture "too sexy for my shirt." The accompanying text message said: _Hope you're feeling better._

Clinton sat on a park bench overlooking the river and texted Diana back: _I'll be fine. See you tomorrow._

He took a moment to study the picture. He hardly recognized himself: the Clinton in the photo was loose-limbed and self-assured, his gaze fixed on the camera. He looked like he knew exactly what he was doing and what he wanted. He looked like CJ, the guy Neal had the hots for.

Clinton could no more be that guy than Neal could be a law-abiding, respectable citizen. Which was to say, maybe he could fake it and reap the benefits in the short term, but it didn't come naturally and it couldn't last. Neal had brought it out in him, had teased him to life. Alone, Clinton was Agent Jones, FBI, and he'd gone his whole life up till now having sensible relationships with people who were compatible with him and his job. That was reality, and it had been fine. He'd been fine. It was time to go back to that.

Clinton's phone rang. He thought about letting it ring, pretending he was too unwell to talk, but it was Diana. She wouldn't rat him out even if she realized he wasn't really sick. "Diana. Everything okay?"

"Yeah," she said. It sounded like she was in the conference room or one of the interview rooms. Somewhere with the door shut. No background office noise. "I just wanted to check up on you. You're usually the one soldiering on when the rest of us are struck down with stomach bugs and head colds."

"Guess it's my turn, then," said Clinton.

Diana hmmed noncommittally, and Clinton knew he hadn't fooled her, but when she continued, it was on a different vein entirely. "I sent you one of those photos from the fashion shoot, just as a joke. Better than Hallmark, you know?"

"I got it," said Clinton.

"When I went to check the Brunswick file from Evidence, someone had already developed the film." She kept it neutral, but Clinton knew they were both thinking the same thing: Neal. "I thought you should know," said Diana.

"Thanks," said Clinton. "It's no big deal, right?" After everything he and Neal had done together over the last couple of days, stealing photos of him—maybe making copies—was nothing. It would have been funny, even, if it hadn't brought back the hollow feeling in Clinton's chest.

"Your call," said Diana. "I haven't told Peter."

"Okay," said Clinton. "I'll see you tomorrow." He went to disconnect and then stopped. "Wait, Diana?"

"Yeah?"

Clinton stretched his legs out in front of him, watching the sweatpant fabric darken in the rain. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure," said Diana. "Hit me."

Clinton closed his eyes. "How did you know Christie was the one for you?"

He could hear her surprise, but she answered straight-up. "I don't know, I just knew."

Clinton nodded. He was about to end the call when she continued.

"I guess I like who we are together," she said slowly. "Christie makes me braver than I am on my own. She believes in me."

Clinton's throat tightened, and he closed his eyes. "Thanks," he said. "That's—I've got to go." He hung up and leaned forward, elbows on his thighs, breathing hard and staring at the photo on his phone until raindrops on the screen blurred the picture and there was nothing left to see.

 

*

 

Forty-five minutes later, Clinton arrived at work in his suit and tie. Neal wasn't at his desk—he and Peter were in the conference room, poring over boxes of files. Clinton left his coat and umbrella at his own desk and ran up the stairs.

"Jones," said Peter, surprised. "I thought you were off today."

"Yeah, I was," said Clinton, feeling flushed and out of breath, and doing his best to hide it. "Can I have a moment alone with Neal, please?"

Peter's gaze narrowed thoughtfully, and he looked from Clinton to Neal and back. "Of course."

He took his coffee cup and left. Clinton shut the door after him and turned to Neal. Neal who looked weary and shuttered, but was putting a good face on it. Neal who was haunting Clinton's thoughts so much that it was a shock to see him in the flesh.

Neal pushed his chair back and regarded him across the stacks of case files and accounts. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong." Clinton slowed down and gathered himself. He had to get this right. _Breathe._ "I need to talk to you."

"Here?" Neal shot a glance through the glass wall, to the outer office, and then his gaze drifted down to the evidence spread out before him. He folded his arms on the edge of the table. "Diana already yelled at me about the photos, interfering with evidence and all that."

"It's not about that," said Clinton quickly. "It's—" He got out the phone and found the photo Diana had sent him. Skirting the table to Neal's side felt like the biggest risk he'd ever taken, but he had to do it. He showed Neal the picture, caption and all. "That's not me. I'm not CJ."

Neal took the phone and looked from the picture to Clinton. He opened his mouth, obviously about to argue, so Clinton put his FBI badge on the table in front of him.

"This is who I am," he said.

"I get it, okay?" Neal said flatly. He set the phone down next to the badge. His face was a pale mask. "It was a mistake. You're Agent Jones, white hat, and you can do a whole lot better than me."

"No," said Clinton. Neal frowned, and Clinton rushed to explain. "I'm Clinton Jones. I work in the van, I live under the stairs. I play _Final Fantasy III_ on my phone. I'm a good agent, responsible, reliable."

" _Final Fantasy_?" Neal looked confused.

Clinton ignored that and kept going, before he could lose his nerve. "And that's been enough for a long time, but it's not anymore. I don't want my life to be about playing safe." He swallowed and stepped closer. "Not if I can have you."

"CJ—" Neal stood up, so they were face to face. The weariness was gone now. There was a new light in his eyes, an intensity that made Clinton's heart race.

"Clinton," he said, staring at Neal's tiepin, because he couldn't meet his gaze. The tiepin rose and fell. "I just think—this isn't a game. You can't go back and do things differently if it doesn't work out. You just have to choose a path and accept the consequences." He looked up. Neal was completely focused on him, so much attention that it was like static in the air. Clinton licked his lips. "I chose the wrong path last night. Neal, would you like to have dinner with me?"

"Clinton, I'll do whatever you want." He said it like all Clinton had to do was ask and Neal would move mountains. He probably could, if he put his mind to it. He was smart and gorgeous and unstoppable. He could do anything, have anyone.

Clinton took a step closer, reached out and hooked their fingers together. "Have dinner with me, and then come home with me and stay the night."

A slow smile spread across Neal's face. "Yes," he said, with such conviction that Clinton saw as much as heard it. Clinton grinned back at him, relieved and giddy. Then Neal glanced sideways, and his smile vanished as if it had been wiped away. "Uh-oh."

Clinton followed his line of sight: down on the office floor, Peter and Diana were standing by the coffee machine, watching them with avid curiosity.

Clinton snorted softly and tightened his hold on Neal's hand. Peter and Diana probably couldn't see that from where they were, and if they could, well, the damage was already done. "I can tell you exactly what they're saying: 'When did _that_ happen?'"

"I could create a distraction," said Neal. "Or we can probably convince them that we're just discussing the case."

"Screw that," said Clinton. If there were going to be consequences, he'd rather deal with them upfront than sneak around, worrying about getting caught—especially since Neal's anklet would make sneaking around logistically impractical.

"What?" Neal's eyebrows shot up. "You want to—what? Come out?"

Clinton nodded. "If you're okay with that. It's your choice too."

"Yeah." Neal looked stunned. Clinton wasn't sure if he was more surprised by Clinton's willingness to be open or by his own. Neal squeezed his hand. "I mean, if you are."

"Okay," said Clinton. He caught Neal by the lapel and slowly pulled him closer. Peter and Diana were probably still watching, but Clinton didn't care. There was nothing here to be ashamed of. Neal's gaze was steady and warm, and Clinton smiled. "Still think this is a bad idea?"

"Best bad idea I ever had," said Neal. "And that's saying something."

Clinton laughed. He leaned in those last few inches and kissed him in full view of the whole office, excitement, love and joy bursting in his chest like multi-colored fireworks. And Neal pulled him closer, kissing him back like they were alone and nothing else mattered, shaping the world and each other.

 

END


End file.
